


Red as Roses

by learningthetrees



Category: Slow West (2015)
Genre: F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6647770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learningthetrees/pseuds/learningthetrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose knew, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised. She knew whenever he was thinking something he wouldn’t say aloud, so why shouldn’t she be able to tell he was ill?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red as Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Anon on Tumblr requested hurt!Silas and, well, I got a little carried away. 
> 
> Set in the _Ho! for the West_ universe -- if you haven't read it, [check it out here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5577475/chapters/12855694)!

He should have known she would be able to tell.

When Silas felt the first aching pangs start in his skull, radiating through his bones and sending chills up and down his skin even as he sat near the fire, he was resolved not to say a word. This too would pass, and he didn’t need bring attention to himself — especially not when winter was approaching and the sky was already threatening snow. He would say nothing, show nothing, and weather the pain just like they would soon weather the storm.

But Rose knew, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised. She knew whenever he was thinking something he wouldn’t say aloud, so why shouldn’t she be able to tell he was ill? All it took was a scrutinizing look across the table that day. Rose leaned forward, staring into his eyes, brow furrowed, before she spoke. “You’re sick, aren’t you?” she asked.

Silas grunted and shook his head back and forth once. But Rose wouldn’t have it; she stood up and placed a palm on his forehead. Almost immediately, she withdrew it. “You’re fevered,” she said.

“’s just warm,” Silas said, but even to him, that sounded like a foolish excuse. It was nearly December, after all. Rose put a hand on her hip, and suddenly Silas felt like one of their children she was scolding.

“You need to rest,” she said, and although there was a firmness to her words, Silas could hear the concern in her voice as well. Perhaps she was just as poor at hiding things as he was.

“I need to work,” he said. “The house needs insulated, food needs securing.” He rose from his seat, but as he did, his head suddenly went light, his vision dotted with darkness. He threw out his hand to grasp the table in an effort to keep himself upright. Rose’s hand was on his arm, steadying him.

“You _need_ to sit down,” she said, and this time, he didn’t argue. He sank back down into the chair, feeling equilibrium return and his head clear for a moment. “Stay here,” she said, and she busied herself at the stove.

“Rose—” Silas started to say, but she turned and put a teacup in his hand with a “Shhh.” He stared into the cup — it was full of a dark brown liquid.

“Drink.”

He glanced up at her, an eyebrow raised. “What is it?”

“Just drink it.” And she had that look in her eye again — the look that could convince anyone they best do what she said or else.

“Yes, ma’am.” Silas gulped it down — it was sweet and bitter at the same time and left a sickly aftertaste on his tongue, far worse than the worst liquor he'd ever tasted. He made a face and felt an itch in the back of his throat that he didn’t think had anything to do with whatever he’d just downed.

Rose looked at him, brushing back his hair. “Now rest,” she said.

He shook his head. He could rest after he finished his chores for the day. He just needed to gather his strength. Silas opened his mouth to tell her this, but she spoke before he had the chance.

“Silas Selleck, you will rest now, or so help me God, I will tie you down.”

He smirked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you testing me?”

He had learned well enough not to do that. When she made up her mind to do something, there was no way out of it. And he loved her for it. If he lay down for a few minutes just to appease her, maybe she would see that he wasn’t as poorly as she thought.

But when he sank into bed, it was as if his body had expended all its energy, leaving him too lethargic to even lift a finger. He grunted in thanks as Rose pulled the blanket up over his chest — it was all he could manage. Even with the quilt over him, he was shivering. When had it become so cold? Silas allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, with the hope that maybe a few minutes’ sleep would remedy him.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark — the only light the orange glow from the stove across the room. Silas lifted his head, which proved to be more of a chore than it ever had been — to see Rose nestled asleep beside him. Judging by the blackness of the sky and the clearness of the stars just out the window, Silas imagined it was long after midnight.

He closed his eyes again.

Opened them. It was light, the little cabin bathed in bright, midafternoon sun. There was the sound of voices outside — somehow, his children had managed to go about their morning routines without waking him.

Silas barely had time to consider this thought when there was a sudden roiling in his stomach, and he sat up and rolled over just in time to retch on the floor beside the bed. After a few heaves, his stomach was empty, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, scowling at the taste.

His head was pounding, and even with his eyes closed, he could see his pulse in the darkness behind his eyelids. He thought about calling out for Rose, but the words couldn’t make it from his mind to his lips.

Eyes open. Someone was mopping his brow with a cloth. He gasped. “Shhh." Rose’s voice. Rose’s lips on his forehead. Eyes closed.

Eyes open. It was dark again. Silas’s whole body had erupted in heat, a layer of sweat coating his skin. He flung the quilt off of him, and the jerkiness of the motion set his stomach to churning again. He leaned over the bed to see a basin sitting on the floor. He heaved again, this time yielding only bitter bile. He shivered, hot and cold at the same time, feeling his eyes flutter shut again as he lay back against his pillow.

Eyes open. Light again. It was early — Silas could tell by the chill in the air. Frost had condensed on the windowpane by the bed, and on each exhale, a puff of steam hung in the air in front of him. Rose was nowhere to be seen. There was a creak, and Silas craned his neck to see his youngest child standing in the doorway.

Henry’s flushed cheeks were rosy red, his hair matted and sweaty. The boy let out a cough, stifling it against his fist. “Papa.” His little voice was a croak. “I’m sick.”

Silas turned down the edge of the quilt. “C’mere,” he said, and the five-year-old crossed the room to climb into bed beside his father. Silas put a hand on the boy’s forehead; it was afire. Henry snuggled against Silas’s neck, let out another feeble cough, and then fell silent, his breathing slow and steady. Silas glanced down to see the boy’s eyes had closed.

The front door swung open and Rose entered the cabin, shaking melting snowflakes from her hair. She started when she saw Henry and caught Silas’s eye. _Him too?_ her look asked. Silas nodded. Rose went to the pantry and returned a moment later with a spoonful of medicine. They roused Henry long enough for him to swallow it before he lapsed into sleep again.

“Should I take him back to bed?” Rose asked, but Silas shook his head. Rose gave a small smile, brushed her hand through Silas’s hair, and then she stole back outside to take care of everything Silas was unable to do.

He found sleep harder. With every cough or wheeze from his son, Silas felt his chest tighten. Life was unfair, he knew that, but why should the young fall sick? He could do nothing to help. The only other time he’d ever felt this useless was when Rose had been giving birth. All he could do was smooth his son’s hair and mutter to him that it would be all right.

He didn't know whether that was true.

Days passed with them abed, and after ministrations from Rose and several nights of uninterrupted sleep, Silas began to regain his strength. His appetite returned, and his temperature remained even. But still he remained in bed, holding his son, whose coughs rattled his chest. Henry asked for stories, and so Silas obliged him in a low voice, telling him of his own childhood in Ireland and of his journey to Canada and of his adventures in the west. Henry fell asleep during most of them, only to jerk awake with another coughing fit.

It had been nearly five days when, after an unspoken conversation passed between Rose and Silas, they sent for a doctor. As they waited, Silas and Rose listened to each of Henry’s coughs with a wince, almost as if the pain was in their lungs, too. Silas imagined the snow drifts that must have been holding the doctor up, wondering what they would have to do if —

_No. Stop. Don’t even think of it._

It was nearly nightfall by the time the doctor arrived, and Silas found himself holding his breath as he examined Henry, listening to his chest as he breathed and looking into his throat.

“Are you a praying man?” the doctor asked Silas after drawing him and Rose aside.

Silas shook his head. “Never was.”

The doctor put his hand on Silas’s shoulder. “You best start.”

That night, Rose gathered Henry into her arms as he slept fitfully, glazed eyes gazing across the room. Silas glowered, glaring at the floor. He’d stopped praying to God the year his father died, the year he watched his mother lapse into despondence, the year his family had lost everything. God had stopped giving him anything, so Silas had stopped asking him. He’d made it on his own as best as he could, made it all these years without so much as a “Hail Mary.”

But when he glanced up at his son’s face, red as roses, Silas felt something in his heart break. _God._ At first, that’s all he could think to say. _God. I’m not one for praying. I know I don’t deserve your mercy, but my son…Please, God. Spare him. Please, God. Please_.

And he repeated those words the rest of the night.

Silas still didn’t consider himself a praying man, but when morning came and Henry’s fever broke, and the following day he could keep food down, and the next day he had the strength to get out of bed, Silas had to wonder whether something he’d said had worked. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come talk to me at [ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com](http://www.ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com)!


End file.
